Our jobs are solely concerned with making the case for our jobs, W. and I agree. Nearly our entire activity at work, occupying almost all our working hours, is the attempt to stay employed, to keep going. But to keep going at what? To stay employed doing what? To keep going at keeping going, to stay employed at being employed: that's the strange vortex in which we are caught.
But at least W. does some real work. At least, before heading into his office, there is still his reading and writing, still the reality of the texts of Christian Marazzi and Hermann Cohen, though W. understands so little of what he reads. What do I do, outside panic about my job?
I only intensify my administrative labours. I only spend more time over the documents I assemble to defend myself: my spreadsheets and databases, my rationales and ten point plans. Where do I think it's going to get me? Does anyone actually reply to my lengthy emails, studded with attachments? They ignore them, as they ignore me. As they ignore W., too, for all that he impresses them with his preparation for meetings.
Because they, too, are busy writing lengthy emails. They too are preparing spreadsheets and filling in vast and complex forms. They too are compiling reports and action plans as they worry whether they too will be sacked.
I need to read, W. says. And I write. I should think of our collaboration, our joint venture, as a way of saving myself. Of our friendship, which is a friendship by way of the texts of Christian Marazzi and Hermann Cohen.
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